


In Sheep's Skin

by SLq



Category: Hannibal (TV), Tokyo Babylon
Genre: M/M, Magic, Shy Will, Sweet Hannibal, Veterinarian AU, doting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter runs a small veterinarian clinic near Wolf Trap, Virginia. One day, a frantic Will Graham brings an injured dog to his door. He also asks him if he is a serial killer.</p><p>Hannibal is intrigued, to put it mildly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The doorbell rings seven times in a row. The bell's soft, pleasant chime morphs into a rising shriek with each impatient press of a rude hand, until it fills the entire clinic with its mournful whine. Several dogs bark. A little Chihuahua rises on its hind legs to scratch at the bars of its cage.

The Persian Hannibal is currently petting into calm fluffs back up and sinks its teeth into the meat of Hannibal's thumb.

Hannibal Lecter looks heavenward and allows himself a very small, very soft sigh.

"One moment, please," Hannibal calls out to his unexpected and terribly impolite visitor. He keeps his voice mild as not to further frighten the fussy Persian. The cat hisses at him for his trouble. Still, she doesn't try to bite or scratch when Hannibal lifts her from the examination table. Once in a padded crate with access to a bowl of cat food and water, the feline even purrs a little. Hannibal takes this to mean all has been forgotten and forgiven between them.

Hannibal sheds his thin rubber gloves and chucks them into a nearby trashcan. The bite isn't deep; the bleeding has all but stopped. He has certainly had worse.

The doorbell rings twice more.

A fresh trickle of blood wets Hannibal's palm as the man squeezes his hand into a fist. He doesn't bother calling out again, simply sets for the door - bloody hand and all. His steps ring heavy. The dogs quiet down in the back.

_Chiiii-_

Hannibal opens the front door.

"May I help you?"

The man on the other side leans into view. He is unshaven and disheveled and had apparently been pressing the doorbell with his shoulder, because his hands are thoroughly occupied keeping a dog the size of a large sheep aloft.

"Are you a serial killer?" the man blurts out.

Hannibal blinks. He adds _possibly intoxicated_ onto his list of observations, despite the fact that the man smells of nothing besides dog and really bad aftershave.

"No," Hannibal says at length. The man stares at him with bleary blue eyes. "Are you?" It seems like a good question to ask, considering.

"No, I just think like one sometimes. Okay, look, my dog - well, this dog, he's going to be my dog, I just found him today and he's hurt. I think a car might've hit him. You're the only vet around and I can't take him to my old one because he's _actually_ a serial killer and he's gone on the run anyway and can you help him?"

Hannibal takes a moment to sift through the deluge of information. The man seems in earnest. The injured dog is certainly very real and very sad-looking, all big eyes and floppy ears and hurt whines. Hannibal can already see where bone had broken, the dog's dark coat bulging outward over inflamed flesh. The dog keeps trying to lick the man's chin in gratitude, calm and trusting despite its pain.

Hannibal swings the door open

"Follow me, please."

Hannibal strides toward the examination room. After a moment, another set of steps echoes behind him.

"Place him on the table," Hannibal instructs. He slides on a new pair of gloves, then quickly puts together a tray of instruments. A scalpel goes next to a syringe containing a strong sedative, joined by two shots of local anesthesia, medical scissors, tweezers, and a threaded needle. Hannibal keeps part of his attention on the stranger, noting the steadiness of his hands and the intensity of his focus as he handles the dog. A kind, passionate man.

Potential insanity aside.

"I am ready," Hannibal announces. "You are welcome to remain and observe."

The man doesn't respond. He moves so he is out of the way but still well in the dog's line of sight. Usually, Hannibal is annoyed by hovering owners. The dog's sheer size and he extent of its injuries have him glad of the man's presence. He would rather not be bitten twice in one day.

The sedative works quickly. The dog's muzzle droops between its spread paws, its breathing soon slowing into sleep. Hannibal turns him onto its side gently. He applies a shot to its right hip, at the side of an obvious protrusion of broken bone, and waits for the anesthesia to take effect. Certain the creature will feel no pain, Hannibal sets his hands over the break and examines it through touch.

"How bad?" the man asks. His eyes are on Hannibal, had been ever since the doctor stepped up to the table. Hannibal finds the attention... He finds he doesn't mind it.

"It appears to be a clean break. No invasive treatment necessary."

The man sags a little in relief. "Good. That's - that's good."

"Indeed." Hannibal presses the bone back, exerting pressure until he feels the pieces settle. He feels over the break and all along the leg's length to ensure all is lined correctly, again and again. The proper way to do this involves X-Rays and a call to an insurance company. Hannibal doesn't believe this man would be willing to wait for either.

"Do you need anything?"

Hannibal looks up briefly. The man seems more aware than he had been even moments prior. His cheeks are certainly redder. "The gauze, please." The man nods and walks around the table to procure the roll from its place on the platter. "Thirty centimeters should be enough. That is about one foot."

"I know how much thirty centimeters is," the man mutters. The scissors make low swishing noises. "Here."

Hannibal smiles. He wraps the dog's leg securely, then looks over the rest of its injuries. Torn skin, several cuts, what looks like a shallow bite. "A fighter," he comments as he cleans away blood and dirt. "More gauze, please - from the box on my desk, the prepackaged squares. And the antibacterial cream."

The man passes him the requested items. Hannibal glances at him once or twice, but the man keeps his eyes low.

"He will need to wear a cast for at least a month, but should be alright to take home today. I would like to monitor his progress, so I will ask you to bring him back the day after tomorrow, and again next week." Hannibal removes his gloves as he talks, then walks to a sink at the back of the room and washes his hands. The man is obviously nervous; Hannibal hopes a respite from his presence will calm him.

"Thank you. That's really - thank you," the man tells Hannibal's back. "I - how much do I owe you?"

Hannibal turns around in time to catch the man patting at his pants, seeking a wallet that had probably remained in the man's car as he stumbled down the clinic's driveway.

"There is no charge," Hannibal tells him.

The man freezes. Large blue eyes blink at Hannibal, then narrow.

"I can pay," the man tells him, words sharp with wounded pride.

"I do not doubt that. However, you are not an official client and I have not been following standard procedure. At this point, I believe it is best if we treat this as a favor between friends."

The man's frown doesn't fade, but his eyes soften noticeably. "I don't even know your name."

"An oversight we must certainly rectify. Hannibal Lecter, at your service." Hannibal extends a hand, smiling.

The man grasps the proffered limb hesitantly. "Will. Will Graham." His hand is smaller than Hannibal's. Hannibal curls his fingers so he envelops it fully for the briefest of moments before letting go.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham."

"Will."

Hannibal smiles wider. "Then please, call me Hannibal."

Will Graham's cheeks redden noticeably, even with the stubble. He clears his throat and looks away. "You mentioned a cast. How - where do I get one?"

"Here, naturally. A fiber cast for now, as it sets quickly. The plaster one should be ready in time for your follow-up visit. It will be much more comfortable for the patient."

Will shakes his head in bewilderment. "That's a hell of a big favor."

Hannibal grins. "What are friends for?"

 

* * *

 

Hannibal persuades Will to join him in the sitting room while they wait for the cast (the fiber one) to dry. Will is hesitant, first to leave the dog's side then to invade Hannibal's space. His shyness makes for a captivating contrast to the boldness Will had exhibited just a short while ago, clutching an injured dog close to his chest.

 _A man of many masks,_ Hannibal muses.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Will shakes his head quickly and does his best to balance his weight at the very edge of the plush chair Hannibal had pointed him to earlier. Hannibal smiles.

"Let me rephrase that: I will be serving you a drink. There is lemonade, tea, coffee, as well as an assortment of alcohol. What shall it be?"

Will's laugh is startled and small, like a living thing that had burst free from the confines of his mouth without quite being ready for the resulting freedom. "Coffee, I guess."

"Excellent choice."

Hannibal opens a cabinet, brings down a sack of coffee beans, and sets to grinding them. Will watches him in silent horror, obviously holding his tongue over an apology. "Your last veterinarian was a serial killer," Hannibal remarks evenly. He hopes to hear denial almost as much as a good story. Virginia is a lovely state, but not the most interesting of places. Will's unexpected presence already ranks high on the list of exciting things to happen to Hannibal this year.

Will's face clouds immediately. "Yeah," he mutters. "Textbook sociopath with psychopathic tendencies. I can't believe I missed it for that long. I'd been taking my dogs to him for _months_."

"How could you have known? I would assume the man did not go around announcing his psychosis."

"I always know. It's my thing," Will makes a strange, aborted motion with his hand. "My job. I'm a profiler. I consult the FBI on serial killer cases from time to time." Hannibal is suddenly and inexplicably certain there is more to it than that. Something to do with Will Graham himself, not his occupation.

Will continues, as if he cannot quite make himself stop. "He'd been killing people - and animals, the crazy bastard - for _years_. Ever since he got to the U.S. Fuck, before that. I'm certain. And I didn't _see it_." The last of his words bleed with self-directed anger.

The intensity of the reaction and Will's growing pallor prompt Hannibal to swiftly change the topic. There will be time for talk of darkness and blood, given Will's profession and Hannibal's own interest. At the moment, more pleasant pursuits must take precedence.

"How many dogs do you have, Will?"

Will shivers, as if shaking off their previous conversation. "Seven. Eight, now."

Hannibal very consciously doesn't pause what he is doing. "That is a lot of shed fur. I imagine your significant other is as taken by canines as you are, to tolerate it."

Will's brows furrow. "No, I'm not - wait, are you... Okay, look, I'm operating on maybe two hours of sleep here, so if I'm wrong I'm sorry, but...are you asking if I've got someone? Like, romantically?"

Hannibal turns the dial of the espresso machine. Soft rumbling fills the room. "I am."

"Because you are... interested. In me?"

"Yes.

Will flounders, completely bemused. He doesn't speak again until a porcelain coffee cup in a matching saucer is placed on the low glass table in front of him. He blurts out a strangled, "Seriously?" and flushes most fetchingly.

"Completely." Hannibal sets a plate bearing half a dozen small croissants dusted in powdered sugar on the small coffee table before sitting down with his own cup. "Why do you find that strange?"

Will looks at Hannibal like he had just told him the sky is made of Jell-o. "Because." Hannibal looks back, calmly expectant. "Do I really have to explain?"

"Not to me." Hannibal takes a sip of his coffee. "Shall I tell you why I find you interesting?"

"Oh my God," Will says, eyes wide and unblinking on Hannibal. His blush had faded with their talk of murder, but now blooms darker and higher - up the man's cheeks, the tips of his ears.

Hannibal has a sudden urge to bite one of the pink shells.

"You are a very handsome man in the possession of a formidable mind. In addition you are kind, gentle, and capable of standing up for those you hold dear - all valuable and attractive traits." Will's pleasure at the compliments is visible. He is almost fidgeting in his seat, the curl to his mouth one of hesitant happiness. Hannibal diagnoses the man with self-confidence issues. His mind points this as a potential avenue of exploitation and manipulation. Hannibal has no interest in either. His words are sincere, and sincerely offered.

"I would count myself lucky to be your partner."

Will opens his mouth. Closes it.

Hannibal smiles and motions toward the croissants. "Rogaliki? There is chocolate inside."

Will grabs one and bites it in half, obviously more in need for something to occupy him than actual want for the treat. Powdered sugar sticks to his lips and the tips of his fingers where he holds the bisected treat. Hannibal licks his lip, tongue tracing at the sharp tips of his bottom teeth.

What is it about this man, that has him wanting to bite and dominate and take?

"These are good," Will says, sounding surprised. "I don't usually like sweets," he explains and chases the last of the croissant with a sip of - "Excellent," Will mumbles - coffee. "Did you make them? The rogaliki." He gets the pronunciation perfect, after hearing the word spoken once. Hannibal is impressed.

"Yes. I enjoy cooking. Meat is my specialty, but I find a certain amount of peace in baking."

Will stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head with a smile. "I still don't get it. Why me? I'm a mess, and you are..." Will pauses. "Are you sure you're not a serial killer?" The question doesn't sound like a joke. Coming from someone like Will, Hannibal suspects it never is.

"Perfectly."

Will deflates. Hannibal raises a brow. "Would you prefer it if I were?"

"No. Jesus, no. It's just that," Will shakes his head. "Well. If you want to waste your time with me, that's your business, I guess."

Hannibal sets his cup down. He reaches across the table and places his hand atop Will's, slow and deliberate so the man has ample time to move away. Will holds as still as stone. "Will." Hannibal calls and then says nothing more until Will looks up, blue eyes dragging along glass and Hannibal's suit to reluctantly lock with warm burgundy. Hannibal smiles and settles his hand fully atop the other man's, covering it entirely. Shielding it. "I do not feel a connection to people often. Never have I felt such an immediate desire for another." Will flushes. His eyes are wide and soft and beautiful. "I do not doubt that I will treasure every moment spent in your company."

Will's hand trembles under Hannibal's, eyes falling to half-mast behind his glasses as he sighs. Hannibal is tempted to lean forward and chase the exhalation with his lips.

"I... Thank you," Will whispers at length. "For that. You didn't have to."

Hannibal lets his hand linger a moment longer before reluctantly withdrawing. "I wished to."

Will hides his smile in his coffee.

Hannibal announces the fiber cast ready not long after that. They leave the brightly lit sitting room for the softer light of the cabinet. There, Will watches as Hannibal demonstrates the proper way to put on the cast. "The plaster cast will fit closer and have more give," he explains. Will nods him along, but his eyes keep straying to Hannibal's lips. Hannibal feels the attention like a scalpel running along naked nerve endings.

Hannibal insists on carrying the dog to Will's car. Will protests plenty, but ultimately gives in and leads the way instead, opening doors and making space for the dog to lay comfortably in the back of his beat-up little Ford.  Once all is done and the dog is confirmed to be still safely asleep, Will turns to Hannibal and smiles.

"Thank you. Again. A lot." He is almost vibrating with nerves. His eyes keep bouncing from Hannibal's lips to his nose to his eyes.

Hannibal steps forward. Will takes an automatic step back and bumps into the car. Hannibal doesn't stop until he is standing between the man's braced legs, almost close enough for their chests to touch. Inappropriate. Highly presumptuous, for a first meeting. Hannibal finds he can't - doesn't want to - help it.

"I would like you to stay for dinner on Tuesday, after the dog's check-up."

Will lets out a bark of laughter. "That's a hell of a way to ask me."

"Is that a yes?"

Will licks his lips. Hannibal's eyes flicker there and drag back up slowly. Will flushes so very, very prettily. Hannibal wants to keep him like this, drunk on pleasure.

"It's a yes," Will whispers. Hannibal's smile gains teeth.

"Very well." Hannibal steps back, then a little more when the slight disappointment on Will's face threatens to pull him back in. He wants to do this properly. "Drive safely, Will."

It takes Will some time to move. Then he is sliding gracelessly into his car and waving around a stuttered goodbye. He looks back twice before he makes it out of the driveway.

Hannibal remains where he is, hand raised, until the man and car disappear from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Tokyo Babylon? Hells yes. There cannot be a murderous vet AU without Seishirou, and there is no Seishirou without Subaru (cameos only, and later). This story is still very much about a clueless profiler and a very interested Doctor Lecter. Just - with furry patients.


	2. Chapter 2

A car pulls into the clinic's driveway a little before five in the afternoon. It doesn't come all the way up; the engine idles some distance away, the automobile itself carefully hidden behind a grove of trees. The gentle rumble of the motor is almost unnoticeable. Had Hannibal been inside the clinic and not politely urging Franklyn Froideveaux and his perfectly healthy Pug out the door, he would not have been aware of its presence.

Hannibal relaxes against the door frame and lets his eyes slip over Mr. Froideveaux's shoulder. He can just make out the dark shape of the car. The low purr of the motor pulses under Hannibal's skin and stirs his blood toward heady anticipation. Hannibal knows the car is Will's. He also knows that he will have the man in his home tonight. He only need be patient and let Will come to him - feed him, comfort him. The rest will fall in place.

Franklyn is still babbling. Hannibal turns his attention to him with great reluctance.

"-next week, wonderful seats, you can almost touch the actors, and they have the quaintest little diner right inside," Franklyn is saying, barely with a breath between the words. He sneezes at the end, an explosion of sound and flecks of liquid.

Hannibal forgets English for three entire seconds.

Franklyn's hopeful grin fades little by little. "I knew it," the man mutters, head bopping down like a wilted flower, "I can never get anything right." Another sneeze.

"Mr. Froideveaux," Hannibal begins, meaning to continue with a politely-worded rejection and appended referral to another veterinarian.

A familiar Ford curves up the driveway. It stops in the paved clearing that serves as the clinic's parking. Hannibal locks eyes with Will through the windshield. Will offers Hannibal a hesitant smile. His hair falls in neat curls at his temples, the ends just brushing the collar of a dark dress shirt. The top button has been left unbuttoned. Hannibal's eyes stray to the parted fabric. The shadows at Will's collarbones look like fingers.

"You close at five." Franklyn has also turned his attention to the newcomer. "Poor fellow. He probably doesn't know." He turns to Hannibal with a knowing smile, no doubt imagining he and the doctor are sharing a moment of some kind. Hannibal strides past him without a word of response.

Will exits the car. His eyes find Hannibal's again, almost helplessly, before Will turns to open the car's back door. He reaches inside and carefully extracts Hannibal's patient. The large dog remains patiently immobile until Will sets it on the ground, at which point it hobbles in place until it faces the car and barks. Will laughs, then another dog is tumbling out. It noses at Will before pressing close to the injured dog's side, golden fur mixing with black.

"It seems I have acquired another patient," Hannibal comments as he comes to a stop some feet from Will and his hounds.

Will's expression turns sheepish. "Yeah, no. Winston's healthy. They are just really attached to each other. I probably shouldn't indulge them, but." He shrugs.

"It is natural for an injured animal to seek comfort. Your stray is lucky to have found such a good friend."

Will peeks at Hannibal from under dark lashes. It is not a conscious act of seduction; Hannibal sees that same gesture offered in the intimacy of a bedroom and feels desire wet his mouth.

"You really don't mind?"

"Dear Will. I would welcome all eight of your strays in my home, if it means having you there as well."

Will looks away. His cheeks flush. Hannibal watches him thread a nervous hand through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement and leaving Will looking even lovelier. Hannibal is overcome with the desire to fluster the man further, to drive him to distraction with adoring words.

A sneeze precedes Franklyn's arrival. The dogs and Will turn their heads toward the sound in unison. Hannibal closes his eyes briefly and seeks patience.

"A friend of yours, Doctor?" Franklyn burbles. He extends a hand toward Will. "Franklyn Froideveaux. I have known Doctor Lecter for two years myself." The Pug twists in Franklyn's arms to bark at the larger dogs. The golden retriever cocks its head in consideration. The dark stray ignores it entirely in favor of licking at its companion's ear.

Will shakes the proffered hand. Clever blue eyes dart between Franklyn and Hannibal, the corners slowly creasing with mirth. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes. He was my therapist." Will's eyebrows shoot up. He glances at Hannibal for confirmation. Hannibal nods shortly. "We became friends - he just got me, you know? It wasn't the same after he quit. Luckily, our paths crossed again. Because of this little guy."

Franklyn jostles the Pug and smiles up at Hannibal. The Pug bites at Franklyn's arm. Hannibal looks envious over the dog's freedom of expression. _He would go for the throat_ , Will thinks. The image of Hannibal with someone else's blood on his lips is strangely easy to conjure.

"It is growing late, Mr. Froideveaux," Hannibal says.

"Yes! Work hours are over, I know." Franklyn turns to Will. "So sorry," he says, sounding anything but.

Will considers the situation. His body grows looser, more relaxed. He leans ever so slightly to the right, toward Hannibal.

"Oh, I am not here for an _appointment_ ," Will purrs.

It takes a moment for Franklyn to arrive to the correct conclusion. Betrayed brown eyes dart to Hannibal's, desperate in their search for denial.

Hannibal cups a hand over the curve of Will's elbow and bows his head, drawing nearer to the other man. When he speaks, his breath puffs against Will's ear. "I am glad you could make it. Dinner is almost ready."

Franklyn makes a wounded noise. His goodbye is hurried and hoarse, eyes averted. His car tears out of the driveway, the Pug barking the whole way to the front gate.

"Seems you've got yourself an admirer," Will comments.

Hannibal's expression tightens in a silent wince. "He has proven quite persistent."

"You're not buying the bit about star-crossed paths?" 

Hannibal's mouth pursues. "Mr. Froideveaux is allergic to dogs."

Will laughs. He whistles for the dogs to follow him and Hannibal inside.

Will lifts the stray onto the examination table while Hannibal washes his hands. "Any complications?"

"None." Will scratches behind the stray's ears, then drops his hand to Winston's head. Hannibal watches him, noting the man's easy comfort.

"You are a psychiatrist."

"I was." Hannibal circles the table so he stands directly across from Will and carefully places his hands against the dog's injured side. The dog tenses, large head swerving to regard Hannibal in a warning manner.

Will returns to scratching behind the stray's ears. The dog slowly relaxes, finally flopping onto its side. It's a big creature. Hannibal feels over its leg carefully, noting the bone structure as he does. Too lean for a dog. Too angular and wild.

"You can't unlearn it. Once you've been something, you are that until the end."

Hannibal looks up briefly. Will's attention seems caught by happenings beyond the present. "Does that bother you?"

Will's smile is bitter. "Here we go," he says.

"With?" Hannibal prompts.

"With the psychoanalysis. Yes, it bothers me. Had I known-" Will clenches his teeth.

"You would not have come," Hannibal finishes for him. Will nods. "You have had bad experiences with psychiatrists?"

Will chuckles, a dark, sorry sound. "You can say that again. Psych evals left and right. It's hard to come out looking normal when you have to think like a killer for a living."

"You have not found therapy helpful at all?"

Will is silent for several minutes. Hannibal procures the new, plaster cast and sets to applying it. He very carefully doesn't look at Will, allowing the man a moment of privacy.

"Not as a whole," Will says finally. "My current therapist... She's good. Brilliant, actually. I owe her my mind." Hannibal looks up from the dog. Will catches his eyes briefly before he looks away again. His fingers raise to tap against his temple. "Encephalitis. Hallucinations, night sweats, missing time. I thought I was going crazy before Doctor Du Maurier recognized the signs."

Hannibal's gaze sharpens with surprise. "Your therapist is Bedelia Du Maurier?"

Will groans. "Oh God. Of course you know her."

"We were colleagues, and remain good friends," Hannibal agrees. Will proceeds to mess his hair up further. Hannibal eyes the wild nest of curls with some amusement. "All done. Your stray is recovering rather well."

"Sirius," Will corrects reflexively.

"Appropriate. After the Dog Star, I presume."

Will clears his throat. "Sure. That's less embarrassing. Do you need help with dinner?"

"Most everything is ready. I had to leave the beef on low simmer to tend to Mr. Froideveaux," Hannibal's tone is telling of his feelings on the subject of Mr. Froideveaux's visit, "but it too should have reached the appropriate tenderness by now. Perhaps you can assist me in setting the table." Noting the turn of Will's eyes, Hannibal adds, "The dogs are welcome to the den. There is some food left over from my patients' dinner, if they are hungry."

"They're fed, but thank you." Will follows Hannibal down a hallway, past the kitchen, and into a comfortably furnished room. The main feature is a large, stone-bedded fireplace, currently crackling merrily. The dogs are very happy to curl into each other beside it, perhaps reminded of home. Will watches them for a moment. The light from the fire catches on the bone-white of Sirius' cast.

"Thank you," he repeats, words soft.

"You are always welcome, Will," Hannibal responds. Will bows his head, a pleased smile twisting his lips.

"Would you prefer to eat in the dining room, or the kitchen?" Hannibal asks, hands busy arranging soft cubes of beef in gleaming plates. Will watches, caught by the efficient elegance of the man's movements.

"Kitchen," Will says, then remembers his manners. "Unless you'd prefer the dining room."

"I would prefer you to be comfortable."

Will's smile is helpless, as if brought upon against its will. Hannibal returns it.

The table is small, a solid rectangle of wood sat in a corner near the kitchen island. Hannibal uses it as extra space when preparing more intricate meals. Very rarely, he might take his morning coffee there instead of the den. It is hardly a space fit for dinner. With Will close and warm in a way the grand dining table would simply not allow, Hannibal finds he doesn't mind at all.

Will moans at his first taste of the beef, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. "This is amazing. Do you have a chef persona, too? In addition to the psychiatrist and the vet?"

"And the surgeon," Hannibal adds. Will stares.

"You aren't joking. How did you find the time for all of that?"

"Where there is will." Hannibal smiles, leaving the old proverb unfinished.

"You certainly have a lot of that." Will makes another appreciative noise. Hannibal's eyes slip to his lips, slick with the beef's juices. "Why did you quit?"

"Surgery? Or psychiatry?"

"Both. Either."

"I reached the height of my potential in each. It seemed necessary to pursue something new."

"Why necessary?"

"The mind needs challenge. Otherwise, it stagnates."

"Attaining any kind of skill in either of those fields would be a lifelong journey for most people. Were you good?"

The question is direct, but doesn't strike Hannibal as rude. Simply honest. Hannibal smiles and responds in kind. "The best."

Will grins. The light of the candles Hannibal had placed between their plates flickers in his eyes, plumes of fire suspended on a dark sea.

"Confidence suits you well, Doctor," Will murmurs, body tilting forward in an almost unconscious arc toward Hannibal.

"As it does you," Hannibal says and moves to close the circle.

The kiss is soft - a chaste press of lips, slightly awkward for the table between them. It still leaves Will flushed when he sits back, pink spreading down his throat to dip enticingly below the collar of his shirt. Hannibal wishes to feel the warmth of it against his lips.

"Dessert?" he asks.

Will's eyes glitter darkly. "Yes, please."

They move to the den. The dogs have fallen asleep some time ago and barely shift. Hannibal serves Will a fragile, cream-textured cake decorated with a crown of berries. Strawberry syrup streams down its sides to circle the dish. "Panna Cotta," Hannibal announces. "Cream and honey."

The presentation is so lovely. Will almost doesn't want to eat it. The hesitance lasts only until he takes a bite. He finds himself scraping the plate clean not long after.

"I don't even like sweets," he complains to Hannibal.

Hannibal sets the dishes on a side table. "The evidence points the other way."

With the distraction of eating gone, Will notices more of their surroundings. He becomes aware of how closely he is sitting to Hannibal. The couch is quite large, yet they had both sat at one end. If either stretches but an inch, they would touch. Will's smile fades. He drops his eyes to his lap and shuffles ever so slightly away.

"Would you like me to sit somewhere else?"

Will lift his head. Hannibal is looking at him. There is nothing reproachful in his gaze, nothing hurt or demanding.

Will lets out a shaky exhale. "Would you?"

"If you wish it, yes."

"Why?"

"Because you wish it."

"That's all it takes?"

"Need there be a reason other than your happiness?"

Will closes his eyes briefly, suddenly unable to bear both the sight and sound of Hannibal's kindness. "Why are you doing this? Why do you care? We didn't know each other two days ago. We still don't."

"I cannot help it. I wish to take care of you."

Will feels the man's honesty. It hurts, cuts deeper than a lie would have. "Why?" he repeats, almost begging, hands clenching into fists over his thighs. Hannibal's body is close, the warmth of it a soft caress against Will's side. Unbearable. Undeniable.

"Because you deserve it. Because you were made to be cared for, adored." Will closes his eyes, shakes his head, but the words find him - draw him, bind him. "What do you wish, Will?" Hannibal asks and Will, Will looks at him, actually _looks_ , and says-

"Closer. I want you closer."

Hannibal's smile is soft. So is his embrace, large hand curving around Will to press against his hip and pull him to the older man's chest. Broad, strong, it absorbs Will's gentle shaking. Lulls him into calm with the steady beat of Hannibal's heart beneath flesh and cloth.

"Kiss me."

Hannibal bends his head. Will tips his chin back, parts his mouth and accepts the man's touch, suckles at the strong tongue that laves over his lips. The kiss deepens, grows slicker and hotter until Will is arching beneath the attention. Even then Hannibal's hand remains gentle on Will's body, his caresses giving rather than taking.

Will sighs softly as they break apart. Hannibal presses another kiss at the corner of his mouth, removes his glasses and traces the ridges left behind with his lips. Along Will's right temple, his cheek, the bridge of his nose. Will melts further into the larger body that cradles his, drunk on the adoration spilling over Hannibal's mind into his own in hot waves.

"Touch me," Will whispers.

"How much shall I give you?" Hannibal murmurs. The words are shaped against the skin of Will's nape, sweet with the man's mouth on sensitive skin.

"Everything," Will breathes. "I want everything from you. I want to give you everything of me."

Hannibal makes a pleased sound. His right hand slips down Will's front, caressing the slight swell of Will's chest then moving lower to spread hotly over Will's belly. Will pushes against it, lets out needy _ah ah ah_ sounds. His cock is hard between his legs. His body is hot, burning, like it had been during the worst of his sickness only sweeter, deeper.

"Soon. Let me give tonight." Hannibal mouths at the hollow of Will's throat, an animal scenting its mate. "Let me please you."

"Yes," Will moans, pleads, "Yes," and watches Hannibal's hand unbuckle his belt, unbutton him, press the zipper down. He closes his eyes when the hand slips inside, embarrassed at the eager whine that leaves his throat. The wetness soaking his boxers. Hannibal's growl of pleasure vibrates beneath Will's skin. Will feels him, hard and large against his ass. He grinds back into him, bares his teeth in lustful victory at Hannibal's wrecked moan.

"Like this, dear heart," the man whispers in Will's ear and oh, he sounds _broken_ , words jagged and sore. The large palm curves over Will, strokes him from tip to base and then pushes lower to press against his balls. Again and again, until Will's hips are pushing clean off the couch and his slacks are ruined and Hannibal is growling low in his throat, again-

Will comes with the scent of Hannibal in his nose, his voice in his ears, his touch on his body.

Will comes with Hannibal's mind, dark and narcotic, in his.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal considers the morality of what he is about to do.

It is not the most ethical course of action. Going behind someone's back rarely is - especially when the person in question is one's lover. Hannibal is aware that the consequences will be dire if he is found out. Will's trust is a fragile thing, fractured and thin. If Hannibal breaks it, the pieces may never fit smoothly again.

Hannibal thinks of Will in his arms, his eyes heavy with contentment. He had barely been able to let the man go that night. He had regretted doing so in the morning, regrets it now - two lonely, dull days later. The thought of losing the man over this is unbearable. Yet.

If what Hannibal suspects is true, Will is beyond his grasp already.

Hannibal dials.

Three rings. Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier picks up with a pleased, "Hannibal," on the fourth.

"Good afternoon, Bedelia." Some of the darkness bleeds out of Hannibal's mind. Bedelia's company has been a source of comfort many a time in the past. Hannibal is not surprised to find her voice similarly soothing. "It has been a while, has it not? I hope you are doing well."

"I cannot complain." Bedelia chuckles softly and amends, "Except for the usual."

Hannibal smiles. "Work, or pleasure?"

"Work. My pastimes are generally very well-behaved. The current one is a right darling."

Hannibal's smile edges upward. "Lucky boy. Will I meet him?"

"Only if he is especially good," Bedelia purrs. "Is the clinic still distracting you to your satisfaction?"

"Very much so. Although I must confess I have found a more appealing distraction, as it were."

"Truly?" Bedelia sounds pleased. "Do tell. Do I know her?"

"Him," Hannibal corrects. "You do, in fact."

There is a pause. Bedelia's voice is a mix of exasperation and reluctant humor when she speaks again. "Will Graham."

Hannibal does not bother to hide his surprise. "Yes. Did he speak of me?"

"No. It appears that he spoke of me." Hannibal remains silent. "He is my patient, Hannibal."

"I will not ask you to break his confidence." Bedelia lets out an airy sigh that is too elegant to be called a snort, but does express the same general meaning. Hannibal presses on, too far gone to go back now. "I am simply concerned."

"Has he done something to you?" Bedelia asks, suddenly sharp.

Hannibal's smile is small but sincere. "No. Neither do I believe him capable of doing so."

"Yet you are concerned."

"About him. He said something... strange."

Bedelia chuckles softly. "He is wont to do that. More often than not, the strange things Will Graham says turn out to be terribly real."

Hannibal had learned as much through his research on Special Agent Graham. However, Will's previous 'hunches' were based upon solid evidence and resulted in more of the same. This-

"What did he say?" Bedelia asks quietly.

Will had been sick. If he is imagining things - if he is hallucinating again - Hannibal ought to tell someone. Should tell Bedelia, who is so very good at convincing men to do as she thinks they should. She had already saved Will once.

Jealousy bites at Hannibal's throat. He bares his teeth, unconscious and aggressive. His voice remains steady. "Nothing. Perhaps I misunderstood."

Bedelia waits a beat, two, then smoothly changes the subject. "Shall I tell you what I thought, the very first time I met Will Graham?" Hannibal murmurs in agreement. " _Hannibal would like him_. Those exact words, clear as a church bell ringing in my skull. I am not surprised that you managed to find each other."

"You did not introduce us," Hannibal notes.

"He was not well."

"Did you fear for my safety, or his?"

"Perhaps I feared for my own." Bedelia's voice has gained a steel edge. She will not allow to be pushed much further.

Hannibal concedes the field. "I apologize, dear friend. Let us speak of more pleasant things."

Bedelia hums in agreement.

They talk of work, future plans, Bedelia's newly refurnished apartment. Bedelia asks after Franklyn with a touch of dark humor; Hannibal shares the measures Will had taken to curb Franklyn's simpering attention. Bedelia laughs deeply, sounding years younger in her mirth. Hannibal finds himself smiling when he ends the call, despite learning so preciously little.

He wishes to trust Will. He already does, to a startling degree. This makes the thought of potential mental breakdown on Will's part even more terrible. Hannibal knows himself, knows he is already in too deep. He would not be able to allow the man to be taken from him.

Even if it is for Will's own good.

A soft ringing echoes in the house. A visitor. Hannibal glances at the clock, noting that he had spent more than half an hour on the phone. Three-thirty already. The clinic closes at four on Fridays, and Hannibal had been meaning to leave soon for the market. He has a special meal in mind for Will's visit on Saturday.

Hannibal rises, taking a moment to shift his shoulders. The muscles are tense there, the back of his neck as well. He passes by the kitchen, eyes catching on the mess of newspapers on the table - three stacks of them, from four different publishers going a month back. There are yet more in the den, some left on a counter in the clinic. Not one of them as much as mentions a serial killer disguised as a veterinarian in the fields of rural Virginia.

Hannibal had resorted to browsing online news sources earlier this morning. He had read through the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and others of their kind. Lack of results had forced him to move onto skimming increasingly sensationalist sites and hobby blogs. Hannibal called the search off upon finding himself, a good three hours later, clicking through the back archives of TattleCrime. Even Freddy Lounds had nothing to say about murderous veterinarians.

The chime of the doorbell comes again, prompting Hannibal to hurry his steps. He opens the door with a word of greeting on his lips.

Will Graham blinks at him. He is dressed in a thin shirt and sweats, has no shoes on, and his hands are bleeding.

Hannibal takes a cautious step closer. He wants to draw the man to him, pull him into the warmth of the house, but there is something wild in Will's eyes. Hannibal wonders if he will get bitten if he tries to touch the man now.

The thought has his blood thrilling.

"Will, are you alright?"

Will licks his lips. He appears lucid enough, but not quite in charge of himself - as if running on something more basic than rational thought. The fact that Will had sought him out in such a state pleases Hannibal immensely.

"I - Hannibal."

"I am here, Will," Hannibal tells him and steps just a bit closer. Will allows it.

"There was a man," Will says. "He came up to the cabin, early this morning. Said that his car had broken down. That he needed a phone to- to call. Someone."

"Did you let him in?" Hannibal asks. He manages to cover his anger rather well. It is not meant for Will, but Will might not see that in his current state.

Will shakes his head, sending dark curls bouncing about his face. Some of them stick to his forehead, matted with cold sweat. "I told him to stay on the porch. I was going to bring him my cell."

"You went inside to retrieve it," Hannibal leads. Will nods, eyes glazing ever so slightly as he buries himself in the memory.

"Yes. I went inside. I couldn't find it right away. Then I heard - a growl-"

"One of the dogs."

"Winston. Winston never growls."

"You went back."

"I ran. He - he had a gun. He meant to rob me, kill me after."

"The dogs attacked him."

"Sirius bit him. He was so quiet, then he just - he lunged at him. If he hadn't been injured, he would have gotten his throat. He tore his arm instead." Will's voice falls in octave, eyes growing dark. "The bastard _shot_ at them. He almost hit Buster." Will's hands clench. Blood spills over his knuckles as fragile skin tears anew.

Hannibal lets Will's staggered breaths calm before asking, quiet and even, "Did you call the police, Will?"

Will stares at a spot beyond Hannibal's left shoulder. His eyes trail over to Hannibal's slowly, pupils blown so wide almost no blue shows through.

"Not right away. Not for a while."

Hannibal imagines Will striking this man, falling him down, bearing upon him. He had been vicious in his fear for his pack. Ruthless. He could have beaten the man to death with his bare hands.

Hannibal lifts his right hand, slow and careful, until it is at height to settle against Will's shoulder. Will bends his head and nuzzles against it instead.

Hannibal curves his palm over a stubbled cheek. "Did you kill him, Will?"

Will blinks. "No," he whispers. His lips move against Hannibal's skin. "But I wanted to." He shudders, presses closer. "God, Hannibal. I wanted to."

"You would have been within your right," Hannibal says. Will shakes his head again and again.

"No. If I start-" Will falls silent. Grows still. Hannibal is certain that if he were able to see Will's eyes, he would find them terribly aware and deeply afraid.

"I should go," Will whispers. "I shouldn't have come in the first place, _fuck_."

Hannibal wraps an arm around Will's waist and holds him where he is, pressed against his chest. "Stay. Let me look at your hands." Will smells of sweat and fear and blood and triumph.

"I can't," Will is saying but he does not resist when Hannibal pulls him inside. Will shivers. Hannibal urges his chin up gently, kisses him soft and warm, and whispers,

"Let me."

Will hesitates only briefly. Then he nods and melts against Hannibal, boneless with exhaustion.

Hannibal guides Will to the den, sits him on the sofa and rearranges his pliant body until he is lying propped against one of the armrests. He then retrieves a large, soft blanket from a closet in the hall and wraps it around Will. Will mumbles in gratitude, blush pronounced. Beyond charming even in this.

Hannibal bends to press a kiss against the middle of his forehead. Will sighs softly, lips pressing against Hannibal's chin. Hannibal bows his head, eyes catching on hooded blue. Will pushes at the blanket and reaches up, meaning to wrap his arms about Hannibal and bring him closer. Metal scents the air.

Hannibal reluctantly pulls away. "Your hands."

"They're fine," Will dismisses but Hannibal is already retreating.

Will's lips bunch in what he will never admit as a pout. Hannibal smiles.

"Just a moment, I promise."

There is a first aid kit in the guest bathroom on the first floor. Hannibal retrieves it and returns to the den. He kneels at Will's side and examines his hands, one at a time. Torn skin, likely from the intruder's teeth. Bruises. He touches the bones gently, relieved to feel no dislocations or cracks. Will keeps his attention on Hannibal, eyes strangely intense. Hannibal offers him a smile and sets to cleaning and then bandaging the wounds. Once he is done, he presses a kiss against the man's knuckles. Will smiles shyly and presses his bandaged hands against Hannibal's cheeks.

"Thank you."

Hannibal smiles into the kiss that follow, the second one. "Tea," he mutters before the third and Will groans, half exasperated, half in mirth.

"I don't want tea," the man protests, supporting the statement with a lick of his tongue against Hannibal's mouth. "I want you."

"You have me," Hannibal tells him.

Will draws back. "Do I?" he asks quietly.

Hannibal's response is firm. "You do."

Will's smile is a hesitant, fragile thing. He leans forward, then makes the most delightfully frustrated face when he suddenly encounters Hannibal's knees.

"Which is why we can afford to pause for tea," the older man says, already moving away. Will growls. "There are scones, as well."

Will's look turns contemplative.

"Fine," he sighs finally. "Go. You and your afternoon snacks."

Hannibal gives him one last smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

The smile melts away as soon as Hannibal is alone. Will had been frightfully cold. His hands had felt like ice beneath Hannibal's, his feet tinged blue. Hannibal wonders how long the man had spent outside as he sets the kettle on the stove.

Hannibal selects a calming blend of jasmine and chamomile for Will and Earl Gray for himself, steeping the leaves and then stirring honey before adding a slice of lemon to each. He places the cups on a wooden serving tray along with the promised scones. Hannibal is certain Will had missed lunch, possibly breakfast as well. He is considering how to approach the subject of a shared dinner when he reenters the den.

The blanket has pooled on the floor. There are newspapers on the couch.

Will is nowhere in sight.

The front door thunders open. Hannibal sets the tray down. By the time he makes it outside Will is already in his car, hands on the wheel. The lights blink on as the engine revs. Their eyes catch.

Will's anger is glorious.

The car does not move. Hannibal makes his way to its side. He open the door, slides into the front passenger seat and pulls the door closed. Will's hands tighten on the wheel. He is looking straight ahead but his attention is turned inward. Hannibal cannot look anywhere but at Will.

The silence stretches until it grows painful, then beyond. Hannibal breathes slowly, calmly. After a while, Will mirrors him. It might not be unconscious - so very little slips past this clever, beautiful man.

"You researched it," Will says finally. His voice is even but gravely, barely keeping whatever monster rages behind Will's eyes below the surface.

"Yes," Hannibal says.

"Why?"

"I wanted to believe you."

Will turns to face him then. His face has grown pale once again, skin clammy. Hannibal is certain the man is feverish. "But you do not."

"I cannot. Aside the lack of news coverage, your serial killer would have been my colleague."

Will says nothing. His jaw hardens. Hannibal knows he is threading on unstable ground. The thought of being asked to leave the car - leave Will - is more upsetting that the idea of the man hurting him physically.

"Tell me his name." Blue eyes flicker to him, carrying the slightest hint of surprise. Hannibal presses on. "Please."

"Seishirou Sakurazuka," Will says. Hannibal rifles through his mental rolodex even as he knows he will not find anything. He would not forget a name like that.

"I do not remember him," he admits.

Will smiles. A strange response, Hannibal thinks - even stranger when Will adds, "Nobody does."

"What do you mean?"

Will sighs. His hands relax their death grip on the wheel, body slouching slightly in his seat. "I mean, _nobody_. Not his neighbors, not the mailman, not his clients. It's like he never existed."

" _You_ remember him," Hannibal says.

Will licks his lips. "Yeah. S- someone made sure I would." Tired blue eyes turn to Hannibal. "Would you like me to show you?"

Hannibal does not know what Will is asking, but understands that whatever it is involves being at Will's side. So he nods and pulls at his seat belt when Will turns the key in the ignition.

Neither of them says anything more, the rumble of the car the only sound between them for quite some time.


	4. Chapter 4

They keep to the main road for a while. Hannibal watches familiar houses blur by, farms and gardens and people making up a neighborhood he had long memorized. He wonders where Will is taking them. Wonders if he will come back.

Will guides the car onto a back road. It is unpaved - a long stretch of uneven ground fenced by fields that would bear sunflowers come summer. Headless stems sway gently as the car speeds by. Hannibal frowns. They had not traveled far; three, maybe four miles northeast. Hannibal should know these fields and their owner. He would have certainly made a point to visit during the appropriate season. The sight of a sea of suns tilted toward azure skies is not one he would have wished to miss.

Hannibal remembers neither the fields, nor the road. The sunflowers had gone to rot many months back without him any the wiser.

The car stops. "We are here," Will says. Hannibal follows him out, into the cold. He looks at Will's feet and wishes to cover them. The hard ground will leech out whatever warmth is left in the man.

Will does not seem cognizant of his own discomfort. "What do you see?" he asks. Hannibal follows his eyes to the circular clearing that marks the road's end.

"A vacant lot. I imagine it will be developed soon, given the location."

Will's expression crumples. Hannibal considers the fear in the man's eyes, the anger in the clench of his jaw. His voice is even when he asks, "What do you see, Will?" but his heart beats off-tune, a staggered _thump-ta-thump_.

"A house. It - it's a clinic, Hannibal. There's a sign, a name on the mailbox. The door's wide open, as he left it when-" Will swallows and closes his eyes.

Hannibal looks again.

There is nothing in front of them.

"Take me inside," Hannibal says. _Make me as mad as you are_. He would give into it, gladly.

Will shakes his head, a jarring motion. "Don't placate me. You don't see it."

"You do." Hannibal steps closer, threads his arm through Will's. The muscles there are tense - Will's entire body is strung along, barely contained by his skin. "Show me what you see."

Will looks at him. He opens his mouth to refuse - then he pushes up and catches Hannibal's lips, presses hard and desperate against him. Hannibal grips his arms, not to push him away but to keep him there. He will not lose Will over this. He _cannot_. Will's lips part. Hannibal does not so much as push inside as is swallowed, consumed by Will's need. Will's heartbroken moan echoes in Hannibal's own chest.

"I don't want to give you up," Will whispers. His eyes are closed, hands hung limply over Hannibal's broad shoulders.

"You will not have to," Hannibal tells him. Will shakes his head, curls crushing against the soft thread of Hannibal's sweater. Hannibal growls and urges Will's head up, large hand curved over his nape.

" _I will not let you go_."

Wide blue eyes flicker over Hannibal's taut mouth, the set of his brows, the despondent hunger in his eyes. Something shifts in Will's gaze. Something licks to life - a knowledge that sparks like a knife's blade.

"You are tearing at the seams," Will whispers.

Hannibal's hand clenches where it rests at the back of Will's neck. Will arches slightly in response to the sudden pressure but does not startle or draw away. His eyes remain on Hannibal, wide and all-seeing.

"You have tried so hard, haven't you. So very hard for so very long. You've kept yourself distracted, kept yourself hidden, but it won't go away. It can't. You've already fed it once. You've already _been_ it once."

Will pauses for breath. Hannibal watches him. He can do nothing else, can barely breathe over the ache in his chest. Always there but so terrible now, brought so very close to the surface.

"Perhaps," Will whispers, licks his lips. Hannibal's eyes follow the flash of pink. "Perhaps I can keep you after all."

Hannibal bends his head and takes the soft flesh of the man's mouth with his.

This kiss is less gentle, less kind. Hannibal bites down; Will bites him back harder, splits Hannibal's bottom lip and pushes at the wound with his tongue. Hannibal lets Will feed from him, pulls the lithe body closer. Lust beats in his veins, throbs low in his hips with the urge to thrust and take.

"Everything of you," Will reminds, voice breathy and high over a whine of need.

"It is yours," Hannibal growls back, "And you are mine."

Will kisses him again, then again - pushes closer until he can slot their hips together, thrust against Hannibal's hip. Hannibal spreads his hands low on Will's back and wishes they are elsewhere. In his home, the car, anywhere but a deserted road  surrounded by a graveyard of wilted husks. He draws back reluctantly. Will's fingers burn where they touch his skin, too cold.

Hannibal raises one of Will's hands to his lips. The gauze feels rough against his skin. "Inside."

Will looks at him a while more, red-cheeked, mouth soft and wet. Hannibal almost leans in again.

Will steps away. His right hand slides down Hannibal's left and grips it at the wrist. He pulls him along, down to the end of the road, onto dry grass. "Like this," he whispers and Hannibal watches him lift his feet as if to climb steps - and he does, by God, he steps up a ladder of air. Hannibal inhales sharply. Then he is being tugged up, Will's eyes on his.

Hannibal follows.

There are steps. Hannibal feels them beneath his feet, just as he feels the change from cement to wood when Will tells him they have crossed over the threshold. There is still nothing around them but sky and earth and grass. Hannibal feels as if his skull is squeezing over his brain, too-small.

"What happened?" he asks Will, voice threaded through with cold he had not felt since childhood.

Will is looking around. His hand is tight about Hannibal's wrist, crushing a bracelet of bruises in his flesh.

"I surprised him. I - must have known something, must have felt something was wrong because I just - walked in that day, without ringing the bell, no appointment, none of the dogs with me. He-" Will's voice stutters. Hannibal's head snaps to the side, eyes chasing after the shadow that had flickered in their periphery. He finds nothing.

"Oh," Will whispers, a soft gasp that draws Hannibal's attention to him. Will is looking at Hannibal, face open and hopeful. "What did you see?"

"A shadow," Hannibal says. "It is gone now."

Will shakes his head. "Perhaps you can..." Will trails off. His eyes slip down the bridge of Hannibal's nose, his torso, to his shoes.

"Do not hide from me," Hannibal rasps.

Will exhales in a rush. "I can try to show you. What happened."

"How?"

Will fingers shake where they press to Hannibal's skin. "The person who helped me remember Sakurazuka. He gave me a part of his... gift. His talent. In exchange for a part of mine."

Hannibal is too outraged at the implied intimacy of Will's words to mind the strangeness of their meaning. "Who is this man?"

Will glances up at him. A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Really, Hannibal? We are in an invisible house, talking about sharing memories. I don't think you have your priorities straight."

"I disagree," Hannibal rumbles. Will blushes, smile spreading. He shakes his head, the gesture more fond than anything else.

"No one important. But he did save me, and he did give me something - either that, or I am truly insane and possibly in a mental hospital at this very moment." Hannibal tugs Will closer. Will allows it, moving in until his forehead rests at the hollow of Hannibal's throat. "I'm not, am I?"

"You are not." Hannibal considers, then adds. "Or we both are."

Will's smile presses against Hannibal's skin. "I can live with that."

Hannibal bends his head to nuzzle the crown of Will's. The scent of him fills his lungs, potent and raw. "Show me."

Will lifts his head. He studies Hannibal for several staggered seconds, then pushes up to press his forehead to the older man's.

Something _tugs_ at Hannibal's mind. Hannibal lets out a puff of breath. Will catches it with his lips.

 _I am not trying to come in,_ Will says - only he does not, there are no words, yet Hannibal hears him all the same - _I am letting you in me._

In him. In Will, cradled by his gorgeous mind. Desire sparks in Hannibal's belly and when the tug comes again, he lets himself be pulled into darkness soft as sin.

 

> Hannibal stands at a door. Lacquered wood and hand-blown glass. He grips the handle and twists. The door opens. He walks in.
> 
> The doctor is in his cabinet. He feels him, a steady stream of calm. His thoughts are cold, always so cold and barren. Hannibal rounds a corner. There he is, a broad-shouldered shadow. His back is to Hannibal. He has his hands around a small dog. The dog is whining playfully, squirming to be set down.
> 
> A whisper.
> 
> The small body sags limply in Sakurazuka's hands. Hannibal knows it is dead.
> 
> "What the fuck did you do?" Will demands. The voice comes from Hannibal's body - no, Hannibal is in Will's, looking through Will's eyes.
> 
> Sakurazuka turns. A spark of surprise lights his single eye before it melts into quiet amusement.
> 
> "Mr. Graham. I wish you had called."
> 
> "Hands in the air," Will snarls. He has his gun out, a gun he is not supposed to carry without the Special Agent badge hanging at his throat. "Don't fucking move."
> 
> Sakurazuka smiles. He sets the dog's corpse down onto the examination table. Hannibal's eyes fall to Sakurazuka's right hand; it is dark with blood. Old blood, layers upon layers of it.
> 
> "How many?" Will whispers. "Not animals. How many people have you killed, you sick fuck?"
> 
> Sakurazuka's smile flickers. His body straightens, seems to tower above Hannibal's - Will's, there is no difference between them here - even as it remains some feet away.
> 
> "There was always something about you," Sakurazuka says. "Something so familiar - oh. I see it now." His smile changes, grows strangely kind. A terribly cruel lie. "I did not think it possible for someone like him to exist in this world, and yet here you are, just the same..."
> 
> Sakurazuka steps forward, just once.
> 
> Hannibal pulls the trigger.
> 
> The bullet explodes outward. It never reaches its mark - a wail of wind, sharp and bitter, and it disappears as it had never been.
> 
> Hannibal stares. Sweat slides down his temples.
> 
> Sakurazuka smiles and takes another step forward.
> 
> Hannibal shoots again, then again. Sakurazuka keeps coming. His hands lift to his lips, breathe strange words over fingertips dyed in red. The room darkens. A hawk cries in the distance and something cold, something old and greedy tugs at Hannibal's skin.
> 
> "Such a shame, to end the game so," Sakurazuka murmurs and flicks his hand outward. Dark daggers whistle between them, meant for Hannibal's - Will's - heart. There is no time to run, no time to scream. Will's fear tightens around Hannibal's throat, his hands scramble over the gun, _this is how it ends_ -
> 
> A wall of light surges into being before him, sudden and bright. It swallows the dark blades and disappears.
> 
> Sakurazuka's eyes widen.
> 
> His smile falls.
> 
> "Subaru-kun."
> 
> A man steps beside Hannibal. Slim, wrapped in a long gray coat, hair a disarray of black strands. His eyes are a dark, dull green. They remain fixed on Sakurazuka even as Subaru moves in front of Hannibal, fixes his body to shield Will's.
> 
> "Seishirou-san."
> 
> "You found me." Sakurazuka smirks. "It only took you seven years." The words are mocking, cold, but Sakurazuka's mind is not. Something struggles to emerge, to break the man's control - a beast no less dark than the one Sakurazuka is now, but infinitely more real.
> 
> Subaru says nothing.
> 
> "Are you here to kill me, Subaru-kun?" Sakurazuka presses. He spreads his hands in invitation. "Do you think yourself capable of it?"
> 
> Subaru inhales softly. His voice is low and steady.
> 
> "I wish to bring you home."
> 
> Sakurazuka's mind stutters still for the span of a single heartbeat.
> 
> The next, the room explodes.
> 
> Glass rains upon them, thousands of sharp teeth. Subaru twists around and reaches for Hannibal - for Will. An urgent shout, and light surrounds them once again. The glass melts to smoke.
> 
> By the time the hail of shards ends, Sakurazuka is nowhere to be found. Subaru stands in the middle of the room, empty-eyed. His hands clench at his sides.
> 
> "Thank you," Will tells the man's back.
> 
> Subaru bows his head in an absent nod. Hannibal steps closer. Will is cautious, but not afraid. "Who is that man? _What_ is he?"
> 
> "An illusion," Subaru says.
> 
> "Felt real to me."
> 
> Subaru's attention shifts, fully on Hannibal - on Will - now. "Your gift - it let you see him. See _in_ him."
> 
> "Yes," Will says.
> 
> Subaru takes a shuddering breath. "What - what did you see?"
> 
> "Something tied down. Tortured. Vicious and wild and half-dead." Will shudders, remembering the feel of Sakurazuka's mind. "Something trying to break free."
> 
> Subaru stares at him. His eyes seem to glow at the edges, as if lit from within.
> 
> Will looks away. "What now? How the hell am I supposed to arrest a guy that pulls weapons out of thin air?"
> 
> "You are not. He is my responsibility." Subaru's guilt burns like poison in Hannibal's gut. "Could I impose on you, Mr. Graham?"
> 
> "Impose away," Will grunts. How can the man sound so normal, so polite, with so much pain inside of him? "I owe you."
> 
> "You do not. Please, do not agree to this out of obligation." Subaru looks at him until Hannibal (Will) nods. "Would you allow me to share your gift?"
> 
> "My empathy?"
> 
> "Yes."
> 
> Subaru seems in earnest. "How'd that even work?"
> 
> "I can enter your mind and learn from it. I will then reshape my own."
> 
> "You can do that?"
> 
> "Yes. Our inner selves are not bound by mortal constraints - they are infinitely more malleable. There is far more to this life than most people allow themselves. More to the world than even what _you_ see, Mr. Graham." Subaru hesitates before adding, "I could help you see it all. If you wish."
> 
> "A trade."
> 
> "Yes."
> 
> A weapon he could not stop. A man he had not _seen_ , despite everything he is - Will nods firmly. "Yes. Do it."
> 
> Subaru does not ask if he is sure. He takes off his gloves - his hands are scarred, Hannibal notes, beautifully so - and presses his naked palms to Will's cheeks.
> 
> The world whitens. Hannibal tries to hold on, but the experience is no longer only Will's - the moment belongs to the strange, foreign man as well and it cannot be shared.
> 
> It does not last more than a minute. After, Will and Subaru sway toward each other, blink with dazed eyes and touch softly, skin on skin.
> 
> "Thank you, Mr. Graham," Subaru pulls away slowly. His fingers linger at the edge of Will's jaw before falling away. "I - it feels- There is so much." His voice is low, rings with awe.
> 
> "Yeah," Will chuckles and Hannibal feels the rush, the high he had been riding, "It's like that sometimes."
> 
> Subaru straightens. His cheeks are flushed. He looks away, blindly groping for the gloves he had stuffed into the front pocket of his coat.
> 
> A flash of red catches Hannibal's eyes.
> 
> "What's that?" Subaru blinks. His pupils are blown. Will swallows. "On your hand. Around your wrist."
> 
> Subaru looks down. "Oh," he whispers. "You see it."
> 
> "Yeah." A string, red and thin. It loops through Subaru's fingers in intricate knots, trails over the side of his arm and melts into the surrounding shadows. Will's chest tightens. "The other end. He has it, doesn't he? Sakurazuka."
> 
> Subaru bows his head.
> 
> "Shit. That's - you have to cut it. You have to let him _go_ ," Will says and Subaru shudders, shakes his head.
> 
> "I cannot. You do not understand-"
> 
> Subaru's voice fades away. His eyes are no longer fixed on the floor.
> 
> Subaru reaches forward slowly. He takes Will's right hand in his own and lifts it up between them.
> 
> Hannibal looks down, at the red string wrapped around Will's wrist.
> 
> "But you will."

 

Hannibal blinks. He is sitting on a hard floor, cradled between Will's thighs. A dark room surrounds them. Broken glass glints with the light streaming through empty window panes - a thousand frozen tears.

"I can see it," Hannibal tells him.

Will shudders against him. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to take it back." Hannibal presses a kiss to his bowed head.

"Do not be. I am glad to share this with you." Hannibal closes his eyes. Images flicker behind his lids, thrown one against the other in rapid succession. A smiling mask, a man of terrible depth and superficial charm.

Fellow wolf among the sheep.

"I remember him. Your veterinarian."

"Yeah?" Will croaks. Hannibal nods against him. "Did you like him?"

"He is a murderer, Will."

"That's not a no," Will points out and shifts so he is sitting in Hannibal's lap. Hannibal grips his hips and pulls him closer, until Will lies fully against him. Will lets out a content sigh. " _Like_ isn't the right word for it, I guess. You envied him. You coveted his freedom."

"That man was by no means free." Hannibal's hands move up Will's back, trace his vertebrae, the rise of his shoulder blades. Will moans most beautifully in response.

"No. But you wanted what he had." Will tips his head, blue eyes catching on dark brown. "Did you know what he was, back then? Did you suspect?"

Hannibal thinks back, to dinners and afternoon visits and shared talks during incredibly dull work conferences. Seishirou Sakurazuka smiled constantly, spoke with gentle words.

His eyes bore enough contempt to drown the world.

"Textbook sociopath," Hannibal murmurs against Will's lips, repeating Will's words of a week ago. Mere seven days; Hannibal wonders how he had existed in a world that lacked Will's company.

Another memory strikes. This one is recent, sharply real. Hannibal closes his eyes briefly to better capture it. "He visited me. It must have been just after-" Hannibal tips his head toward the dark room.

Will's fingers bite into Hannibal's shoulders. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing. He told me he was leaving, that he wanted to say goodbye." The man's face had struck Hannibal as different. More alive. "He said Death had come for him. He seemed...happy."

Will snorts. "And you didn't call the cops?"

"By the time he left my driveway, I had forgotten he existed."

"Fucking magic."

Hannibal smiles. "Indeed." He threads his hand through Will's hair, fingers playing with the curls at his temples before trailing over his lips. Will licks at him, eyes mischievous. Hannibal's breath catches. "May I take you-" _home_ , he had meant to say. "Back," Hannibal finishes, rather awkwardly.

Will smiles. "Yes. Please."

Hannibal rises slowly. His legs prickle with needles of pain, forced in the same uncomfortable position for much too long. Will seems even less steady. Hannibal catches Will's hands in his as the man stumbles, bearing his weight.

A flash of red.

Hannibal falls motionless. So does Will, eyes drawn to the tangle of red string binding his right hand and trailing down his arm. They both follow its length.

It does not stretch so very far.

"You..." Will gasps. His left hand clenches in Hannibal's right. The red string budding over the older man's fingers feels hot, like a kiss. Like blood.

Hannibal draws him closer, shifts them until Will's back is pressed to Hannibal's chest. Their hands part, then come together again - right in right, left in left. The red string draws taut, a line of sensation between them. Hannibal presses a kiss against it, lips framing the length at the inside of Will's wrist. Will gasps.

"Are you truly surprised, dear heart?" Hannibal murmurs against Will's skin. The red string slides silkily over his lips, as if pleased at the attention. Will shakes his head.

"Take me - take me home," he begs and presses back, clenches his fingers over Hannibal's.

"As you wish."


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal drives this time. Will curls up in the passenger seat, an old blanket clutched close around him. It smells of dog, but it is warm and Will is _freezing_.

"A hot bath would help. Then tea," Hannibal says and guides the car back onto the main road. Will grunts.

"Stop pushing tea at me. You're not even British." Blue eyes flicker to Hannibal's smiling profile. "Jesus, I don't even -"

"I am Lithuanian," Hannibal says, smile stretching wider. "You may ask anything you like, dear Will. I will answer."

"Yeah. Same." Will swallows. He fiddles with the blanket, fidgets in his seat. Takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush of words.

"Who did you kill?"

The car swerves slightly. Hannibal stops smiling.

"You said you are not a killer of habit. I believe you. But you have killed, and you have thought about doing it again. You think about it often. It's what it has been all about - the impressive degrees, the sudden career changes. You are trying to keep yourself distracted." Will chances another look at Hannibal. He cannot read anything from the man's face.

"Why haven't you?" Will asks. May as well go for broke.

Hannibal lets out a soft, startled sigh. "That is not what most people would wish to know, Will."

"It's what I want to know. Will you tell me?"

Hannibal considers the question for a good stretch of the road. "It is not a very pretty story," he warns.

"Tell me anyway."

Hannibal does. He tells him of a long winter in a small country besieged by revolutionary thought and the press of tradition. Tells him of his family, the last of an aristocratic line who had long lost everything but their titles. Tells him of a group of men and a dark night in the worst of the season.

"They were hungry, and they were angry," Hannibal says. "They wanted someone to blame. More than that, they wanted something to eat."

The men had broken into Hannibal's home. His parents had been fast asleep in their room on the second floor, where Hannibal too would have been had his little sister not heard a noise, begged her brother check the kitchen for monsters. "I used to tell her I am scarier than the nightmares. That I would eat any monster that tried to catch her," Hannibal murmurs. He glances at Will; Will looks back, enraptured. Unafraid. Hannibal looks back to the road.

"That night, I was. And I did."

The men came in through the back door. Hannibal had Mischa's hand in his, leading her down the stairs to see for herself that their kitchen bore no strange creatures save the rat living under the sink. They had frozen at the bottom step. The men were quiet, but Hannibal and Mischa knew the house too well. They could feel the men's presence, the hard malice of their intent.

Hannibal had sent Mischa upstairs to wake their father. Then he had gone into the kitchen and found the knife his mother used to carve pigs.

The men had split. There were three of them - all three had guns, old Soviet rifles that clicked heavily in their hands. Two would go upstairs. One would take whatever food was to be found in the kitchen.

Hannibal had clutched the knife and waited for that one, stray dog, hidden in the shadows of the open doorway.

He had struck fast. A knife in the man's gut, thrust quickly and without pause for thought or hesitation. But Hannibal had been too young, his body too weak. He had not managed to kill the man, only wound him. Perhaps not even gravely. The man had roared, slammed the rifle against Hannibal's head to get the boy off. To get him in range to shoot. Gunfire had sounded above and Hannibal had thought of his sister, had snarled and launched himself at the man. The rifle had gone off, the bullet caught in glass.

Hannibal had closed his teeth around the man's throat and _pulled_.

"They found me like that." Hannibal says. Will shivers under the onslaught of emotion, body cold with terror and hot in a shameful, needy way. "My sister had woken my father in time. He took the other two men by surprise, shot them dead. When they came down to look for me, I had already," Hannibal pauses. Not out of shame, no. His blood beats hot beneath his skin.

"You had eaten from him," Will says, breathless. Hannibal inclines his head.

"Yes. The part of him I had bitten off. I chewed it as I watched him die. I wanted him to _see_. When they came in - my father, my mother and Mischa behind him - I wanted to show them, too."

"You were proud of your kill. It was for them. For Mischa."

"Yes."

"Did they thank you?"

Hannibal lets out a startled laugh. "Dear Will. What do you think? What would you have done?"

"I would have licked the bastard's blood off your mouth."

Hannibal's face blanks in surprise. Then he _looks_ at Will and Will bites his lips, spreads his legs under the blanket. He wants to bare his throat.

"My father was enraged. My mother cried." Hannibal's voice is low and rough. Will feels it drag over his spine, words like lovebites.

"And your sister?"

Hannibal's expression softens ever so slightly.

"Mischa clapped in delight."

The rest of the story is bloodless, but not lighter. Hannibal had grown under constant scrutiny, virtually pushed out of the house upon his eighteenth birthday. "Our station had improved somewhat, due to an unexpected inheritance on my mother's side. Staying close to home was no longer a vital necessity," Hannibal explains. "I left to study medicine in Austria. Mischa visited quite often."

Hannibal's lifelong pursuit of academia had been Mischa's idea, albeit indirectly. Hannibal had shared his thoughts with his sister, the one soul in the world he trusted not to turn away in disgust. He had told her of the hunger in him, the dearth of meaning he found in everything before and after That Night. Told her that he feared what he could become, and wanted it too.

Mischa, then barely ten years of age, had looked at him very seriously and said, _You are thinking about it too much. Think about something else instead._

"So you thought about becoming a surgeon," Will muses.

"It seemed like an impossible enough idea at the time, involving plenty of useless trivia to occupy my attention."

"Does your sister still visit you?"

Hannibal guides Will's car up the clinic's driveway. The front door is still wide open, as Hannibal had left it in his mad pursuit of this singular man. "Yes. Any chance she has. I would have done the same, but my father is not overly fond of my company. I have not visited Lithuania for nearly twenty years."

"He's gotta die sometime. You can go back after." Will opens the passenger door and pauses there, one foot out of the car. His eyes are on the dark asphalt. "That's what you plan to do. You'll go back to Lithuania once he's gone." His fingers are shaking. It's not from the cold.

"It was." Hannibal comes close, then closer still. Warm hands fall on Will's shoulders. They ease him out of the car and pull him into Hannibal's arms. Will goes, numb. "I will not leave you, Will."

Will shudders. His arms come up to grip at Hannibal's back, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. "We are very different people, with different lives. I've got everything I want here but you, you won't be satisfied with this for long. You'll want to leave one day, and I'd have to -" Will's voice breaks before he can say _let you go_.

Hannibal's arms tighten, the embrace growing painful. Will lets out a soft grunt but does not fight the crush of muscle. He wants it harder, wants to be able to feel Hannibal around him when the man no longer is.

"Inside."

Hannibal shifts until he has Will pressed along his side. His arm slips around Will's waist, hand spreading large and possessive over Will's hip. Will finds himself moving almost against his will, like a boat pushed along by a storm's might. The analogy calms him. Drowning is Will's preferred way to go; it seems like it would be nice - soft and quiet, the whole way down. He lets his head fall against Hannibal's bicep and obediently shuffles forward.

Hannibal picks Will up just before they enter the house, a sudden sweep of a strong arm beneath Will's knees. Will yelps in surprise, face hot. He pushes at Hannibal's chest. The man remains silent.

"Very funny." He twists in Hannibal's arms. "Come on, let me go-"

Hannibal jostles him a bit. Will's teeth clack shut. Hannibal does not stop walking.

Will's eyes narrow. His body tenses in preparation of a real struggle.

"Your feet are bleeding," Hannibal says. He keeps his eyes straight ahead as he climbs the staircase to the second floor.

Will's feet hurt terribly, now that he is in a mind to feel the pain. He had forgone shoes in his hurry to get away from the cabin. Dealing with the intruder and then the police had left him in a frenzy, brimming with frustrated violence. There had been broken glass on the floor of Sakurazuka's clinic, Will remembers.

Will's glare fades. His blush does not. He hides it in Hannibal's chest, mortified at the mess he had made of himself.

Hannibal stops in front of a door. He urges it open with his shoulder. Will flicks the light switch on, trying to be helpful. Then he stares.

"You are not bathing me," he tells Hannibal, very seriously.

Hannibal does not reply. He sets Will down on the ridiculously wide edge of an even more ridiculously large bathtub, making sure Will's feet touch the - marble? Will bets it's marble - floor gently. Will hisses. His soles burn. Hannibal flicks too-dark eyes to Will's face. His hand lays heavy on Will's shoulder, a silent command to remain as he is.

Hannibal runs the water in the bath. Once he is satisfied with the temperature, he lets the tub fill and goes to collect a small pile of towels from a set of branching shelves mounted low on the opposite wall. He folds one at the end of the tub and leaves the rest on the edge besides it. The tub has filled three-fourths of the way, which is still enough to submerge someone of Will's stature chest-high if they are sitting down.

"Undress."

Will blinks up from the water's steaming surface. His hands are gripping his shirt when his brain catches up. Will stills. "I-"

"Will." Hannibal's fingers clench at his sides, veins straining beneath skin. "Undress."

Will swallows and pulls the shirt off. The air in the room has grown warm with the steam, but his skin still pebbles. Will feels stiff and bare and raw. His dick hardens against his thigh.

"Pants as well, please. Careful with your feet."

"Could," Will licks his lips, eyes on the floor. His ears ring. "Could you look away?"

"I cannot."

Will glances up. Hannibal's eyes glint black, narrowed to slits. A predator's gaze. Will does not feel so much as prey as-

"Okay." Will shivers, smoothes trembling hands down the tops of his legs. "Okay, I - Jesus."

Will pushes his pants and underwear down, past his hips and then over the curve of his buttocks. He has to lift up from the tub to get them off all the way. The pain of his feet pressing against the floor under his full weight has him arching his back with a helpless whine.

Hannibal growls back, from much closer than he had been a moment ago.

Will's breath hitches. He kicks the thin sweats and boxers away and sits back down, not daring to look at the other man. The edge of the tub is marble, too. The feel of it against his bare skin, the swell of his balls, is terribly distracting. His thighs press together. Will thinks about covering himself with his hands. He is fully hard now, the length of him hot between his legs. He should feel embarrassed. He does, but he also feels warm, excited. A glance at Hannibal's intent face, the soft part of his lips, has Will spreading his legs and straightening his back instead.

Let Hannibal see what he does to him. It's his anyway, just as the hunger in Hannibal's eyes belongs to Will.

"In the bath," Hannibal rasps. "Slowly. It will sting at first."

Will nods and twists around. The water is likely at a suitable temperature but it feels scalding as it swallows his chilled flesh. His feet throb urgently. Will bites his lip and forces them all the way down, then submerges himself. He shifts around until he can rest his head against the towel Hannibal had laid out for him. Once he has settled, Will turns toward Hannibal. The man is still. His breaths are deep and soft, almost nonexistent.

Hannibal's eyes have never left Will.

"Now what?" Will whispers.

The sound of Will's voice sets Hannibal free of whatever emotion had held him in its grip. In one smooth motion, he steps closer and then kneels at the side of the tub. His hands brace his weight as he leans forward, caging Will between them. Will tips his head back and parts his lips expectantly.

Hannibal's breath passes over them, a ghostly kiss not followed by flesh.

"I will care for you," Hannibal says and Will shivers; he _sounds_ \- "And then I will take you to bed."

Will turns his head fully and presses his lips against Hannibal's lower arm. " _Yes_."

Hannibal threads a trembling hand through Will's curls. Then he shifts away and picks up a soft washcloth, a glass bottle of some sort of soap that smells like winter when it spills over the fabric. The wounds on Will's right, then left foot are cleaned, dirt and blood caught in the washcloth and raw flesh soothed by Hannibal's fingers. Will hisses and twitches with the careful touches. Some of it is pain. Some of it sends Will's hips rolling gently beneath the water, thrusting against its shifting weight. Hannibal's eyes flick there, then up to Will's face. Will makes himself look back. This is no more intimate then what they had already shared in Will's mind. Nothing will ever be. The feel of Hannibal within him, chasing the cold of loneliness and mistrust and neglect - Will tips his head back and moans, the pleasure of the memory more real than the physical arousal heating his body.

A large hand grips Will's right ankle. It moves up his calf, past his knee, fingers hard. Shy of bruising. Will lets his legs fall open further and pushes up against Hannibal's hold, not to dislodge it but in welcome. He can see the red string from the corner of his eyes. Can feel it on Hannibal, too. It glints in and out of focus, just like the antlers rising from Hannibal's head, the dark feathers in Will's hair.

"Are we truly so very different, Will?" Hannibal asks. He has moved up, prowling forward on hand and knees as he draws a line of fire up Will's body. "We are both hiding. We have both found our lives too full of nothing, wanting for meaning."

Will nods. Words have left him, stripped from him as his clothes had been - willingly, by his own hands. In their stead is pure sensation, pure feeling; his and Hannibal's. Theirs.

"I would not leave you," Hannibal tells him. His lips move at Will's throat, teeth pressing into the flesh between each word. He kneels at Will's back now, larger body curved over Will's, mouth at his throat. Fight or fuck. Prey or mate.

Will turns his head away from Hannibal and bares his neck.

Hannibal snarls. He bites down as he closes his hand over Will's cock, strokes him from base to tip. Will's hips push up violently into his grip. The scream that had been building in his chest emerges as a strangled whine. Water sloshes over the tub's edge, Will's legs tremble and his feet slide desperately. Hannibal does not relent, does not slow down - does not remove his lips from Will's neck, alternating between nuzzles and kisses and violent bites. Will's soft moans have merged into a mess of sound, almost undistinguishable from Hannibal's voice murmuring promises and threats and dreams into his skin. "I will kill you before I let you go," Hannibal snarls and Will's body curves up, muscles roping his neck and arms, and comes over the man's hand.

Time speeds up, after. Will loses minutes to languid exhaustion. He is in the tub one moment, Hannibal gently washing the sweat from his arms and torso, the semen from his stomach. Then he is being lifted up and wrapped in softness, patted dry. When Will can think again, he is reclining against Hannibal's chest in a large bed. The room is quiet around them, dark but for the light of a single lamp at the side of the bed. Will stares at it for some time before raising his eyes to Hannibal.

Hannibal is looking at him. Has been looking at him all night. Ever since they had met.

"This isn't normal," Will tells him. His voice is hoarse. Sore in a pleasant, used way.

"Normalcy is relative."

"Yeah? I thought about sticking a knife in your throat over your hypothetically leaving me behind. How's that for relative?"

"I would let you."

Will laughs brokenly. "Shit, don't - don't say things like that."

"It is true." Hannibal's arms tighten around Will. The covers are over them but Will is naked beneath. Hannibal is not. The rasp of Hannibal's clothing against his bare skin is erotic and irritating. "I meant what I said, as well."

Will's breath rattles in his chest. Hannibal traces the sound with his hand, large palm spreading at the center of his torso.

"Would you eat me, after?"

Hannibal presses his forehead in the dip of Will's throat.

"Will."

"You would," Will says, certain. "Not to punish me. To keep me close."

Silently, Hannibal nods his head.

"I won't leave you," Will tells him, just as sure.

"You should wish to. I am not what you thought I was."

Will reaches for Hannibal's mind. It is so easy to slip in, feels so very natural to taste the thoughts and emotions that lie at the core of the man's being. The darkness is there, yes, as is the terrible bloodlust that had carried Hannibal to conquer mountains. They are there, but so is Will. In the adoration Hannibal holds for him, the man's desire, the new and terrible knowledge that he is not alone in the world.

"No," Will says, "you are more. You are better," and slots his lips over Hannibal's.

They kiss softly, for all the struggle and silence and unease between them. Hannibal may wish for blood on his hands, for life between his teeth, but he wants this too - the gentle hum of Will's body. The warmth of the man's touch. He wants to share what he is with Will and have Will share everything with him. He wants them so close they blend into each other.

Will twists so he is lying on Hannibal, chest to chest. His hand slips between them and palms at Hannibal's cock. Hannibal catches his wrist.

"Not tonight, love," he whispers against Will's lips. Will shakes his head and tries to break the man's grip, but it is like steel around him.

"That's what you said last time. Why won't you let me?" The words come out a bit more vulnerable than Will would have liked. He looks away, frustrated. "If - if you don't want sex between us, tell me. Fuck. You don't have to- just because I want it-"

Hannibal growls and rolls them over so he is on top. Will likes the feel of him there, likes the weight of Hannibal's body pinning him down. His body is too spent to respond but his mind gasps its pleasure.

"I want you. I wanted you the very first day we met," Hannibal says. He bends his head and kisses Will's lips as he speaks, his chin, the hollow of his throat. Will grows more and more pliant beneath him, until he feels like he can melt into the mattress. "I had never felt anything like it. My body is not usually this greedy. I feel with my mind. Yet I wanted you, more than I wanted to breathe."

"So why won't you take me?" Will pushes his hips up, pressing his soft sex to the strained front of Hannibal's pants. Hannibal's next kiss is a bite.

"I will not be rushed, Will. You are tired, and hurt." Will makes a noise of protest that is swallowed in a hard kiss. Hannibal breaks it to regard him with eyes like pyres. "I want to do this right. We have time, do we not?"

Will shivers. He raises his arms and brings them over Hannibal's shoulders. His fingers tremble as they thread through the man's hair. His knuckles bump against the base of tall, branching antlers.

"The rest of our lives."

Hannibal smiles and dips his head. Will parts his mouth to accept his kiss.

The red string stretches between them, a thin noose looped around their necks.

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants an epilogue of Subaru catching Seishirou, with a bit of Will and Hannibal (and possibly poor Franklyn) thrown in? :D


End file.
